


Fraternize

by VenusInCancer



Category: Mortal Kombat (Video Games), Mortal Kombat - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Canon burned Kabal, Emotional Baggage, Feels, Fix-It AU?, Guilt, Guilt and Feels, I project anxiety onto Stryker, Kabal's canon injuries mentioned, M/M, MK9 Compliant but goes AU after that, MKX AU, Pining, Scars, Snark, Sonya Blade (barely there), Stryker probs has PTSD, Swearing, ex-revenants, good guy Kabal, like so much angst I'm sorry, strykabal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 08:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24467896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenusInCancer/pseuds/VenusInCancer
Summary: Unspecified time within an unspecified AU where everyone Sindel mopped the floor with was restored alongside Jax, Kuai Liang, and Hanzo. Restored to life and offered a consulting gig with SF, Stryker deals (poorly) with trust issues, not being dead anymore, and how long he's had feelings for Kabal. Misplaced humor, equally misplaced guilt, and, like always, I have inserted snark where there should be fluff and emotional maturity.MK9 compliant, but MKX (and beyond) AU.
Relationships: Kabal/Kurtis Stryker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	Fraternize

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone who has read my other Strykabal shit knows how I wrestle with Kabal's canon. I love him as a face, and love him with Stryker, but have issue with how he left the Black Dragon. Mainly with Kano NOT having issue with him leaving the Black Dragon. Although, I dislike Kabal's MK11 retcon, I love his look, voice actor, and overall swag.  
> I love good guy Kabal, but don't like sweeping his bad guy past under the rug, or treating it like an aside the way MK9 did. Most of all, I want him with Stryker. :)  
> Stryker goes by Kurt, in my warped mind, once he gets to know people, at least. Main reason he's generally referred to by first name in this fic, is that it's weird to me to have him call himself by last name in his own head.  
> May rewrite Creative License to reflect this, at some point. Or not. I'm lazy, and it's a stupid ass headcanon hill to die on. :D

Okay, so Kurt's only looking at this guy from behind. Sure, there's plenty of people with long black hair, about this height, this build.

 _His_ height. _His_ build.

But even from this distance, Kurt can plainly see the _scars_. All along the forearms and on what bit of the neck is exposed, to either side of that dark ponytail of his.

“You didn't tell me he was here.” Kurt's tone is some mix of entitlement and betrayal.

“I didn't have to,” Sonya—make that Major Blade—reminds him. She's firm, and she's not only right, but _has every right_ to be so clinical about it.

Professional.

Kurt agrees, “Forget I said anything.”

The major sighs, then admits, “I would have told you. I thought you already knew. I mean...”

Yeah, Kurt knows what she means: he _should've_ known. They were partners, after all.

But that was in another life. Literally.

Something about the way Major Blade calls out, “Stryker?” is a little too soft.

Nah, not soft. Wary, though. Cautious.

Kurt almost corrects her—asks her to call him by first name. Doesn't. They aren't that familiar yet and that's exactly what it would be.

Might never be that friendly, probably shouldn't be, and more than that, she's not Kabal.

_But he's here._

Kurt knows they were rescued together. Ended up at the base together. For debriefing, observation, evaluation. That sort of thing. But that was the last he's seen of Kabal, since...

_Since what?_

It's the closest they've been since being undead together, that's what.

Kurt just figures that was by design. He isn't 100 percent sure whose design, just that it's no fluke. Doesn't want to think too hard on how it's probably by _Kabal's_ design, in that case.

It's just too easy for Kurt to forget—more like, outright deny—that he and Kabal were never really together. Too hard to accept that nothing came of the one time they were. That it was just a couple of teammates celebrating a successful op with way too much booze and _way too little_ regard for having to face each other the next day.

Because the next day, the Outworld Invasion happened.

Kurt finally asks, “What's he doing here?”

“What do you think?”

* * *

It's anticipation and relief and _hesitation and nerves_ all rolled into one, approaching Kabal in the corridor. It's just the two of them, but the buzz of an active military base is swirling all around them.

“Something wrong?” Kabal asks, looking more than a little bit suspicious.

His eyes are _slivers_ , but they aren't narrowed in judgment. It's no less piercing, his gaze, even though only the right eye is actually looking at anything—seeing anything. It's scrutiny, plain and simple, and it's all over his face.

But there's something more.

Kabal is about the only person who can manage to look both skeptical and curious at the same time, but that's what it is.

Kurt admits, “Just wasn't expecting to see you here.”

It's the truth, so why does it sound so unconvincing?

“Right. Well, drink it in, or whatever it is you're doing.” Kabal hasn't lost his sharp tongue, that's for sure. Or he's gotten it back or whatever.

“What are you here for?” Kurt asks, even though he already knows. Knows what Major Blade said, at least.

“To sell Girl Scout cookies. What the fuck do you think I'm here for?” Kabal's inquisitive, adding, “Was I not supposed to take the deal?”

 _Offer_.

Unless...?

Kurt echoes, “Deal?”

“Turns out ex-Black Dragon joining the ranks of the NYPD is a hard sell. The idea of anyone being ex-Black Dragon, period.”

 _Of course_ Kabal's here to let the powers that be paint a target on his back, or maybe just shine a giant spotlight on his past in the name of justice. Or guilt.

They've both given body and soul for Earthrealm. At this point, Kurt's still not sure how much of _either_ he or Kabal got back.

“They gave you a choice?” Kurt asks. It's moot.

“Sure. But I only have so many options.” Kabal stops to gesture to his face. “It's either cooperate with Special Forces or get into fetish porn.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake.” Kurt laughs, despite himself.

Kabal just shrugs. “Hey, some of us aren't here because we'll look good on the SF charity calendar. Shirtless and oiled up, cuddling a puppy or some shit.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kurt mutters. It's not funny. More like, he's trying to convince himself it's not.

Kurt can see—well, he can just plain _see_ Kabal and it's been too long. The scarring has left his skin wavy and rippled in some places, taut and shiny, almost, in others. It's not new, but at the same time, it is. Kabal doesn't need the respirator anymore—thank the gods—and is _choosing_ not to wear the mask anymore. And he's like a map Kurt's been trying to find, for far too long, for a place he's wanted to go— _to be_ —even longer. But something about charting a course still feels forbidden.

“You look good.” Kurt means it as a compliment. Hell, he just plain means it.

Kabal clicks his tongue and pretends to sound offended. “You're an asshole.”

“You do. But are you really okay? To be here? Just plain okay, I mean—”

Unofficial gig or no, SF still has fitness requirements. Physical _and_ psychological.

Then again, there's a _completely_ blind guy with a demon sword on the payroll.

It's prickly, defensive, the way Kabal insists, “I know what you mean.” He pauses, and when he continues, it's more subdued. Appreciative, almost. Or at the very least, amused. “And I'm fine.”

Kabal's both foreign and familiar at the same time. Just like it's always been as comfortable as it is dangerous to be close to him.

To _want_ to be close to him, at least.

There's a distinct, and _rare_ lack of guile in Kabal's grin, as he murmurs, “You look good, too.”

* * *

It's just the two of them. It usually is.

Always was.

Everybody gave them both a wide berth back on riot squad, too. The hotshot who couldn't get along with anybody else on the team, and the guy who did god-knows-what for the Black Dragon before _somehow_ being allowed a spot on the roster.

Kurt knows what. Made a point to know, or he and Kabal never would've been partners in the first place. It's why not knowing things now gnaws at him the way it does.

Still, so much has changed the way he sees Kabal. No, make that, _the way he looks at Kabal_. Either way, he's honestly not sure how much more he can take.

The major engages the both of them but it's her job. Cage, too, but he's got no damn tact. Or even the slightest clue when to back off. Takahashi... Well, it's more than a little disturbing to Kurt, the idea of anyone poking around inside his head, whether it's a shrink, or some kind of telepathic ronin. Briggs is the opposite; he keeps _everyone_ at arm's-length now. There's whispers he's planning to retire. For the very same reasons Kurt will never quit. Won't—no, _can't_ —walk away.

He knows he's got nothing else. That he's still just the hotshot who couldn't get along with anyone, _until_ meeting the guy who did god-knows-what for the Black Dragon.

Kurt knows he's a lumpy mix of inquisitive and desperate, and he can only hope the scales are tipped in favor of curiosity, rather than weighed down by the pathetic. “Think they'll put us together?”

_Keep us together._

Kabal's contemplation, on the other hand, is as brief as it is nonchalant. He admits, “I dunno. Why? Do you wanna be paired up with me?” He cocks his head to the side. “Do you _not_?” 

It's what Kurt has _always_ wanted. 

But before he can say so, Kabal is musing, “Shit, they're probably not even required to put _one_ ex-dead guy on each team.”

“I know we haven't exactly talked things over, since...” Kurt's not sure if he's backpedaling, or changing gears, or just plain thinking out loud. It's not much of an explanation, what he's just said. Hell, it's not even a complete sentence.

“Since when? What things?”

“You know since when and you know what things.”

“Okay, so...?” It's clear Kabal doesn't disagree, but that he _does_ see through the smokescreen. The lollygagging. As well as how useless and uncharacteristic it is.

“I need to know what happened to you, after...”

“After...?” Kabal may genuinely be wondering, or maybe he's casting a line, seeing if Kurt will go for the bait.

It's damn hard not to bite, and scream it to the rooftops, that Kurt wants to know everything that happened after _he_ failed to protect his partner from being set on fire, then couldn't even get him properly evacced.

What Kurt actually says is, “After we got separated. On the street.”

There's a half-smile on Kabal's face. They both know what it means. “You saw me again. You see me now. You know what happened.”

“I need to know what happened _after_ we got separated, but _before_ I saw you again.”

Only, a part of Kurt does know. Has known it since the moment he and Kabal did see each other again, brief as it was. Because in addition to the mask, and the respirator, and the _scars—_ all new _—_ Kabal also had his _old_ hookswords back.

Leave it to his pals in the criminal underworld to save his life.

Kurt knows that isn't all they did, and that they sure didn't do it for nothing, either.

Kabal leans back and exhales. “Guess Kano was trying to get the old band back together.”

Kurt nods. Pretends he's mulling it over—more like, pretends he needs any time to do so. “He thought you'd rejoin him.”

“I guess. Hell if I know. Or he thought he could strong-arm me into cooperating. Like there was _anything_ he could threaten me with, at that point.” Kabal pauses and forces eye contact. “ _At this point_. Definitely wasn't the reunion I was envisioning, either way.”

“What were you envisioning?”

Kabal's flippant. He mutters, “He should've just let me die.” His tone, his expression—everything about him—he's not even bitter saying this kind of shit.

It's like he's completely unbothered.

“You don't mean that.”

“It's what happened anyway. Besides, it's what makes sense.”

“Makes sense to _who_?” Kurt's aiming for incredulous. Misses the mark and lands on desperate instead.

“Everyone?” Kabal guesses. It's one of those extremely rare moments, Kurt's own projecting aside, where Kabal looks anything resembling vulnerable. It's like he's already anticipating rejection, asking, “Why do you want to be paired up with me, anyway?”

“I just do.”

Gone is that flicker of vulnerability, and so quickly that Kurt's wondering if he didn't just imagine it all in the first place. Kabal huffs, “Not looking for a babysitter. On the job _or_ off.”

* * *

“Hey.”

Kabal's staring. “ _Hey_...” he eventually echoes Kurt's greeting. Echoes, mocks, same difference.

It's clear he's still trying to wrap his mind around the idea of Kurt being at his doorstep, after the way their last conversation ended. _Didn't_ end, is more like it.

Hell if Kurt knows why Kabal even opened the door for him.

Some blend of pity and curiosity, most likely. They both know damn well Kurt shouldn't be here, all things considered. That the window he's trying to come through has long closed, if it was ever open.

Kurt clears his throat. What a shitty gesture, grasping for time. He eventually, _dumbly,_ offers, “You asked why I wanted to be paired with you.”

Kabal nods, just once, jerking his head up and back. He's already turned and retreated inside, leaving Kurt to follow.

Kurt knows it's his invitation in. He also knows better than to dawdle, where Kabal is concerned.

_Never again._

It's the first time, period, not just since being restored, that Kurt has ever seen where he lives.

Everything's new.

It has to be.

Everything's open.

It doesn't have to be.

Kabal waves vaguely to the couch, but doesn't verbally offer for Kurt to sit down. It's offhand, the gesture, as he heads for the kitchen. Kurt watches him open the fridge door and lean over. Hears, as he starts digging in the fridge.

Bottles clink, and Kurt figures he's about to be offered a beer. Given one without being asked if he wants it, rather. It's sort of their style, his and Kabal's. Some overbeaten, yet underdone mix of silent understanding, self-deprecation, and raw sexual attraction. Not to mention, way too much time wasted trying to recover from missed opportunities and outright fuck-ups.

Voila. The recipe for whatever they _aren't_.

Serving size? The Netherrealm.

Shelf life? Two years, give or take.

The couch is some dark material, still stiff, from being so new. The fabric _whooshes_ at the slightest disturbance, like Kurt needs any more reminders he's intruding.

A bottle is being waved in front of him, as Kabal tells him, “Spit it out. Whatever's got you all up in your head, and _on my ass_ about shit.”

Kurt's not sure he recognizes the label; he's really only pretending to read it. More like, the words aren't really sinking in. The bottle's cold in his hands. It isn't warm enough around him that it's started to sweat, yet. Even with Kabal sitting so close, and staring. The cushions barely whisper under his weight. Then again, his movement has always been swift, calculated.

He's perfectly still now. Waiting. For Kurt to say something. Do something.

It doesn't matter. Nothing matters, once Kurt mutters, “Spread out. Give him multiple targets.”

Kabal tenses at his side.

Pretty clear he doesn't need to hear more. He knows exactly what Kurt's talking about.

_So, he remembers._

Of course he does. It was the order that destroyed his life, before the Empress snuffed them both out.

Kabal's tone is gruff and nowhere near as dismissive as he's trying for. “Could've just as easily been you.”

“It wasn't.”

“No shit,” Kabal snorts. “I'm not your responsibility, Kurt. And I'm not your fault. Neither is what happened. _Any of it.”_

Kurt protests, “I wasn't there.” Only, he was.

There to see it happen. _Let_ it happen. But not to do a damn thing about it afterward.

And that's the whole fucking problem.

“You're here now.”

“It's not the same.”

“We're both... _here_.”

Kabal's taking the bottle out of Kurt's hands. Putting it... somewhere. Then he's taking hold of Kurt's hands. It's meaningful and deliberate, and he's bringing them to rest against his own face. Kurt has never both needed to, or been more afraid to touch anything in his life.

To feel.

Kabal is needlessly reminding him, “They're scars. They're not going anywhere.”

“I know that.” It's almost a growl. Kurt really doesn't need anyone telling him that.

Kabal shakes his head. But he doesn't move his hands. Doesn't let Kurt move _his_ hands.

Kabal suddenly looks tired, but not because he's mad. He's sick of rehashing this shit. Kurt can't blame him, and hell, he's tired, too. Here he thought he'd be in control again, once the puppet strings were cut. But he's just switched one set of wires for another. Only, he hasn't figured out where this line leads. Or how much explosive is at the end of it.

Kabal's firm. “The damage is done.”

“What are you getting at, Kabal?” Kurt's wary, tentative. Beyond terrified over the idea of being cut off. Really cut off.

“ _Nobody's_ scars are going anywhere, and the damage is done,” Kabal repeats himself. “You okay with that? _Really_ okay with that?”

“I'm okay with _you_.”

Kabal makes a disgruntled face. Kurt feels the expression beneath his fingers at least as well as he can see it. Then he halfheartedly mutters, “Your _shit_ taste notwithstanding, I suppose that's a start.”

Kabal lets go. Moves his hands away.

Kurt does, too. Asks—more like pleads, “Are _you_ okay with _me_?”

“If you're looking for someone to blame for what happened... Or someone to _blame you_ , you better look somewhere else.”

Kurt can only imagine how pathetic he sounds, admitting, “Not sure what I'm looking for.”

Kurt stares at his hands. There's nothing on them; he's not sure what he was expecting.

That's a lie. He was expecting _blood_. No, not expecting it. But there's a part of him that's always gonna feel like he _deserves_ to see Kabal's blood on his hands. Not just his, but that's the stain he can't seem to wash away.

He looks back up at Kabal.

“Well, that makes two of us.” Kabal's deadpan, and Kurt isn't sure if that's a good thing or not.

“The idea of it not being _the two of us_ , though,” Kurt finally confesses, and to the both of them, “scares the shit outta me.”

“What?”

“Part of me needs you to blame me. The rest of me just plain needs you,” Kurt continues. It's like he's simultaneously raised and lowered an anchor. He's put down stakes the exact same time as he's raised them, infinitely.

“The hell are you saying, Kurt?”

It's quiet. Awkward. A put up or shut up moment if ever there was one. Kabal looks more curious than anything, and that's relatively rare. There's no underlying skepticism, no mistrust. No uncertainty lurking below the surface and popping up for air at the worst moment.

“You must know how I feel about you. How I've always felt about you.” Kurt's not quite asking, but he does wonder.

“Sorry?” Kabal _is_ asking. No, he's _not_. He's _guessing_ and it's rhetorical.

Just the thought has Kurt hot under the collar. “I've _never_ felt sorry for you.”

“Then what?”

“Impressed. Attracted. Proud. _Irritated_.”

There's self-satisfied laughter dancing around in the back of Kabal's throat, and just— _he fucking would_ be high on himself over the idea that he's a pain in the ass _._ Only, Kabal suddenly becomes thoughtful—subdued, even—and murmurs, “And here I thought you didn't trust me or some shit.”

“You're not the one I don't trust.”

He's really not. Kurt has never doubted Kabal. Never not trusted him. Even when they first met and he probably should have been more skeptical. Been skeptical, period.

He catches Kabal's good eye darting back and forth. Studying _him_.

It's two years ago and today at the same time. They're drunk and sober, alive and dead.

Everything and nothing, and they're both leaning forward. Touching. A damn sight more than touching. They've crashed together like a wave at high-tide. It's muffled moaning and needy groping, against the rustling of the upholstery beneath them, and there's already a desperate ache pressing at Kurt's jeans.

Kabal feels, smells, _tastes_ exactly the same. The one thing Kurt couldn't forget, even when he couldn't _remember_ anything.

When they both pull away, Kurt's buzzing and breathless. And hard.

Kabal lets out a single bark of laughter. His voice is hushed, husky. “No way we're gonna be paired together now.”

“ _What_?”

Kabal's amused, but matter-of-fact. “Don't shit where you eat and all that. Although, I don't think SF are real sticklers about fraternization.”

“And if they are?”

“Well, fetish porn's still an option.”

**Author's Note:**

> Um? Thanks for reading my shit. This is quickly becoming a Strykabal dump account and I'm pretty much here for it. My filename for this fic was 'strykabalhorseshit' and why argue with that? That would be a pretty fitting pseud for me, tbh.  
> I also feel like Stryker is kinda stubborn and hard to get along with, even if he doesn't mean to be. All those accolades in his bio, about solo career accomplishments, coupled with how he's always officially been treated like an outlier, and it makes me portray him as something of a tough nut to crack. Unless you're Kabal. And he's all about those nuts. Err. Whatever.  
> Kabal is also the well adjusted one here? Or the slightly less maladjusted one?  
> I just really like the idea of Kabal being, 'what's done is done, not fucking dwelling on shit' and Stryker being obsessed with his need to serve and protect and make things right and he just. Cannot. Let things go. Especially anything he considers a personal failure, or letting his partner down.  
> I know Stryker's usually seen as the one to give low-self-esteem, post-burns Kabal his groove back. I just thought painting a different picture would be interesting. Who knows. I haven't had anyone to talk fanfic/headcanons with since quarantine, except my mom.  
> 


End file.
